


Leaves of Lórien

by pennflinn



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Divergence - The Lord of the Rings, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, One Shot, Reunions, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-19
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:20:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23743705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennflinn/pseuds/pennflinn
Summary: The Three Hunters meet the Riders of Rohan in time to join their ambush against the Uruk-hai — and to rescue two Hobbits who have had enough of Orcs to last a lifetime.
Comments: 14
Kudos: 76





	Leaves of Lórien

**Author's Note:**

> This story is a long time in the making. It's been a rough story concept since I first saw the movies when I was young; later, I considered writing it down but thought that writing Tolkien fanfic was way beyond my depth. It's a lie that's kept me from writing any Tolkien fic until recently, when I finally shook some sense into myself and realized that it's not as scary as I've always led myself to believe. Still, it is nerve-wracking trying to write in a new fandom, let alone a fandom entrenched the richness of Tolkien's world, so please forgive any missteps.  
> -  
> This may borrow elements from the movies, but it is largely set in the world of the books. Please enjoy!

Aragorn could hardly believe their good fortune — they’d had so little of it lately, from the ambush of their camp on the Anduin to the seemingly fruitless chase they’d been on for near three days. They could not afford to let their hope flag, yet he’d been feeling despair creep into the company’s quiet moments of rest. Though they’d run without consideration for their own limits, they’d known that they were too slow. The company of Uruk-hai had figurative whips at their backs, if not literal ones.

The Three Hunters didn’t talk much during their periods of rest, but Aragorn knew that they shared similar thoughts. They’d seen Orc captives and could only guess the treatment they received at the hands of creatures who saw torment as sport. Even if Merry and Pippin were alive — perhaps the last of their dwindling hopes, given the discovery of the Elven brooch and accompanying Hobbit prints — Aragorn’s blood chilled with each hour that passed without rescue.

“We will save them, Aragorn,” Legolas had sad as they made one of their rare stops for food and sleep. “We must not give up the chase.”

Aragorn had been thumbing at the Elven brooch, turning it over in his palm. A delicate thing it appeared, yet it still shone as though new-made despite being cast into the mud. He’d grasped it then, feeling the ridges against his skin. “We will not; not while we have breath left.”

And yet, there was luck. Luck, that they’d happened upon the Riders of Rohan, or rather, luck that the Riders of Rohan had happened upon them. They, too, knew of the band of Uruks and welcomed three stout fighters as they made their way to battle. 

After three days of running, Aragorn was more than happy to use his blade, and he knew that Gimli was itching for a fight. The Dwarf had grown protective of the two young Hobbits, as had all of them, and that combined with his hatred of Orcs made him a deadly adversary. Legolas set loose arrows and the Riders cleaved limbs with their swords and spears, and the fight was over quickly.

Throughout the battle Aragorn had searched, frantic, for some sign of the Hobbits, worried that despite orders to spare their lives, they may be caught between Orc-blade and Rohan-spear. There was no sign of them, not even as the Orc corpses piled up, until one Rider called out, “The Halflings are here!”

Aragorn’s heart thrummed with equal parts expectation and fear. He rushed to the voice, Gimli and Legolas at his heels.

The Rider who had called was standing over a pile of bodies, and only after a moment did Aragorn realize that two of the forms were Hobbits. They were almost entirely obscured by a large Orc, which had fallen dead atop them. Aragorn tore the body away to find none other than Peregrin Took, coiled protectively around his cousin. The two did not stir as the Orc was removed, and all hope flew from Aragorn once more.

But as he crouched down, he saw the rise and fall of breath beneath their sullied Elven cloaks. Alive. It was almost too much to wish for.

When they still did not stir, Aragorn took Pippin by the shoulder and rolled him over. Pippin startled then; he shrank from the touch and bolted upright, poised to scramble away as best he could with hands, legs, and feet bound. That look of a cornered animal persisted a second longer, but then his eyes widened.

“Strider?”

A prayer of thanks came unbidden to Aragorn’s tongue. “It’s good to see you again, Pippin.”

All color drained from Pippin’s face, and he pitched forward. Aragorn was poised to catch him, lest he lose consciousness, but the Hobbit instead fell slowly until his forehead met Aragorn’s chest. There he stayed, nearly motionless, with his face pressed against Aragorn’s shirt. Aragorn laid one hand on the Hobbit’s back and the other on his head, already feeling for obvious injury.

“Be at peace now, my friend,” he said. “You are safe.”

Beside him, Merry was pushing himself to a seated position. He had a foul brown substance smeared across his forehead, mixed with an unsettling amount of dried blood, but he otherwise appeared intact and alert. Both alive. Both safe.

At last Pippin drew away, though he now appeared dazed, with the same exhaustion-glazed eyes as Merry. He swayed a bit, but Aragorn saw now that Gimli was nearby to help in case the Hobbit swooned.

“Aragorn,” Pippin mumbled. “Merry. Merry is hurt and needs help.”

“I daresay you both do,” Aragorn said. He drew a knife and began cutting away at Pippin’s bonds; Legolas did the same for Merry. The Hobbits’ wrists and ankles were chafed and bleeding, though it appeared that somehow Pippin had managed to loosen the bindings on his hands. Never underestimate Halflings — wasn’t that what Gandalf had tried to tell them?

As Aragorn cut through the ropes on Pippin’s ankles, noting with displeasure the sure signs of whip lashes about his legs, Pippin looked around. “The Orcs…”

“They won’t trouble you anymore — we made sure of that,” Aragorn answered. “You’re in the company of friends now.”

“Aye,” Gimli added gruffly. “Friends who have had enough worry to last an age, chasing you two rascals around. I never thought I’d have to run so far or so fast to overtake a pair of wee Hobbits.”

“I’m afraid we didn’t have much say in the speed of travel,” Merry said. “And they didn’t seem to like our suggestion of stopping for a nice meal, either.”

Aragorn traced the bloodied wrists, the weals on the legs, a nasty bruise beneath one of Pippin’s eyes. “Are you much hurt beyond what I can see?”

Pippin met his eyes, then looked down, shaking his head. He still looked as though he had one foot in another world, and it was no wonder — but Aragorn was used to the Hobbits’ unflappable cheerfulness, and he ached in seeing that taken away in some small measure.

“Bumps and bruises, mostly,” Pippin said in answer. “And I wouldn’t turn down a bit of water and food, either, though I suspect no Hobbit ever has. The Orcs forced us to take some nasty drink, but that’s the extent of it.”

“It’s not the whole truth,” Merry said, massaging his dust-streaked calves. “Pip also took a lashing for trying to break ranks.”

“Not to escape,” Pippin cut in quickly. “I knew there was no hope of that.” He seemed to consider his words, chewing a cracked lip. “I don’t know what I did it for. I often thought about how easy it would be to give up. I know that’s an awful thing to say. But I also knew that giving up isn’t what… what Boromir would have wanted.” He swallowed hard. “I ran off to try and leave some trace of us for you to find, even though I knew I shouldn’t, or couldn’t, hope for that either. I felt guilty, because — well, because, why should I hope for you to come after us when Frodo is of so much more importance? Unless—”

Aragorn stilled him before he could become consumed by the realization. “Frodo and Sam are alive,” he said, placing a hand gingerly on Pippin’s shoulder. “They separated from the Company during the battle. Their path is their own now, and they would never have wanted us to abandon you.”

Pippin squeezed his eyes shut, and beside him Merry exhaled loudly.

“Take heart, my friend,” Aragorn said softly. “For your efforts were not wasted, and neither your hope.” And he relinquished the treasure that had remained close to his heart for so many days, pressing it into Pippin’s small hands.

* * *

The attack was over quickly; clashes of steel, the whinnying of horses. The ground thundered with hooves, so intense that Pippin thought the ground might be rent beneath him. So long had he been in the company of Orcs that he’d grown untrusting, so that the flashing mail and streaming hair of the attackers seemed to him threatening. But he was still bound hand and foot, and even if he were not, he didn’t think he had the strength to try and flee. Days of fear and hard marches and whips had taken their toll; all he could do was press himself close to Merry as some means of protection, and listen to the sounds of the clash, and quail in fear.

Then: suffocating. A great weight crushed Pippin, and he squeezed his eyes closed, waiting for the pain. But he recognized the stench of Orc, and based on the stillness of the weight and the warm wet that now spread against his arm, he guessed that the Orc that had fallen atop him was dead. Still, he kept his face buried in Merry’s shoulder and hoped against hope that he would not feel a knife in the dark.

But when the sounds of battle died down and the last Orc screeched in its death throes, somehow Pippin still lay unscathed — or, rather, no more scathed than he had been before the riders ambushed the Orc troop. He pried his eyes open and looked blearily at Merry. His cousin still appeared to be only half-conscious, but he too was untouched by the battle. When Pippin glanced up again and saw the number of horses that now mustered around them, he realized what a miracle it was. It would be too easy to trample two Hobbits on the ground, or to mistake them for Orcs and slay them on the spot. But he supposed that the dead Orc that half-crushed him might have saved him in the end by shielding him.

“Merry,” he whispered. “Merry, are you alright?”

Merry shifted, blinked up at Pippin. “Just great, Pip. Life as usual, isn’t it?”

Then the sound of heavy boots drew nearer. “Stay still,” Pippin said. “Someone is coming.”

He ducked his head back into Merry’s shoulder and tried to find any lingering scent of Lórien in the soft gray cloak there. But Lórien was long gone, and any comfort it might bring was lost in the clamor of blood and fear.

“The Halflings are here!” came a clear, rich voice from above Pippin. Then there was more boot-stamping, and the Orc was pulled from Pippin. A hand, warm and human, grabbed Pippin’s shoulder and rolled him gently to his back. Pippin recoiled and drew away, ready to defend Merry to the last, but the face hovering above him drained all terror from his body.

“Strider?”

Aragorn’s brow, which seconds before had been furrowed deep, softened, and he breathed a prayer of thanks. “It’s good to see you again, Pippin.”

The world swam. Pippin didn’t dare believe his own reality, clouded as it had been with darkness and blood and fear. Yet this reality was what he wanted, what he so desperately hoped for. He allowed this weakness to take over and let it carry him forward until his forehead met the leather on Aragorn’s chest. He was dimly aware of Aragorn’s comforting touch on his back, but he was focused on the warmth, the sense of Aragorn’s heartbeat, the stillness of safety at last.

Safety. Not the safety of the Shire, but safety nonetheless. For the first time in many days, he felt that he could let the darkness take him without fear of what would await him when he woke.

But he couldn’t — not yet.

When he finally managed to pull himself away, he had to blink back weariness. “Aragorn,” he said through the fog. “Merry. Merry is hurt and needs help.”

Aragorn looked at him with a grim sort of half-smile. “I daresay you both do.”

He and Legolas began making short work of the ropes that bound Pippin and Merry. For the first time Pippin looked around; the battle had been confusing, a flurry of color and movement, but he saw now a small host of riders with streaming gold hair and green garments. They took no notice of the Hobbits, save the occasional curious glance.

“The Orcs…?” Pippin began.

“They won’t trouble you anymore — we made sure of that,” Aragorn said. “You’re in the company of friends now.”

“Aye. Friends who have had enough worry to last an age, chasing you two rascals around.” And there was Gimli, too, looking battle-worn but visibly relieved. “I never thought I’d have to run so far or so fast to overtake a pair of wee Hobbits.”

Merry grunted. “I’m afraid we didn’t have much say in the speed of travel.”

Pippin tuned out most of the conversation, transfixed on Aragorn. In most of his imaginings, Pippin thought of the man only as the tough, hardened warrior who fought off Orcs and Ringwraiths and came out with mere scrapes. The one who would charge into fire and darkness with a sword in his hand and ancient languages on his tongue. Pippin often overlooked the gentleness, the healing spirit that had kept Frodo alive for days after the attack on Weathertop.

Aragorn’s touch was light as he probed Pippin’s bloodied wrists and legs, then looked him in the eye. “Are you much hurt beyond what I can see?”

His eyes were gentle, earnest, and measured, and Pippin couldn’t help but think, _This is a man who inspires the truth in people._

And so he looked away.

“Bumps and bruises, mostly. And I wouldn’t turn down a bit of water and food, either, though I suspect no Hobbit ever has. The Orcs forced us to take some nasty drink, but that’s the extent of it.”

But Merry spoke up where he couldn’t. Bloody worrier. “It’s not the whole truth. Pip also took a lashing for trying to break ranks.”

“Not to escape. I knew there was no hope of that.” Pippin shot an exasperated look at Merry, then looked down, shame prickling up the back of his neck. “I don’t know what I did it for. I often thought about how easy it would be to give up. I know that’s an awful thing to say. But I also knew that giving up isn’t what… what Boromir would have wanted.”

It still didn’t feel altogether real, the events of the past few days. It wasn’t a lie to say that it felt like a nightmare. Seeing Boromir struck with those arrows, waking up bound and in pain, suffering every taunt of the Orcs and not knowing when daylight would come for them. Pippin hadn’t known nightmares could be so awful.

“I ran off to try and leave some trace of us for you to find, even though I knew I shouldn’t, or couldn’t, hope for that either. I felt guilty, because—” Pippin paused, retreating to that black place he’d found himself in so often while lying on the hard stones Orcs gave them as resting spots. “Well, because, why should I hope for you to come after us when Frodo is of so much more importance? Unless—”

The dark thought came to him then, smothering him, stifling him. But Aragorn was quick to respond, placing a hand lightly on Pippin’s shoulder and squeezing.

“Frodo and Sam are alive.”

It was the reassurance Pippin didn’t know he needed. Woozy with the new relief, he shut his eyes tight and tried to think of a word of gratitude sufficient enough for what he was feeling.

“Take heart, my friend,” said Aragorn then. “For your efforts were not wasted, and neither your hope.”

Into Pippin’s hand he pressed something small, delicate — the Elven brooch, miraculously unsullied, as if its intricate design and the memory of its birthplace were enough to repel the foul things of the earth into which it had been cast. Seeing it there in his hand, Pippin’s face grew hot. This time, he felt the needle-pricks of tears forming, and he trembled.

Luckily, Aragorn was as gracious as he was gentle. Though he doubtless noticed Pippin’s quick unraveling, he didn’t remark upon it. Instead, he patted Pippin’s knee and looked up. “Legolas.”

The two hunters expertly switched places, giving Aragorn a chance to assess Merry’s injuries and Pippin a chance to wipe away the tears that were crawling down his face.

Legolas slipped softly into place and began cleaning and wrapping Pippin’s wrists. He didn’t have the same gentle quality as Aragorn, but by the very nature of his race his touch was feather-light and reassuring. As the Elf worked, Pippin ran a cracked fingernail over the surface of the brooch.

“What you did was very brave,” the Elf said quietly.

Pippin looked askance at the Elf. They had a fine relationship, as had everyone in the Fellowship, but Legolas was by far the hardest for Pippin to relate to. Legolas had the tendency to lapse into periods of unreadable serenity, going silent for hours. Pippin had once joked with Merry that in those moments the Elf was either so intelligent he didn’t have time to converse with mortals or so witless that staying silent was a strategic maneuver.

The truth was, Pippin had enormous respect for the Elf; he’d always admired Legolas’ seemingly effortless bravery and skill. Maybe that was why he sometimes found Legolas unapproachable — because he felt so unskilled in comparison.

“Not really brave to be lugged about like a sack of cabbages by a horde of Orcs, is it?” Pippin joked weakly.

Legolas did smile a bit at that, bless him. “You risked much,” he said. “And you discarded that which may have given you comfort, all in the hopes of giving us a fighting chance at finding you. You did not give up when the road seemed dark. I would count that as bravery.”

“And a bit of recklessness. But I’d expect that from Peregrin Took,” Gimli added with gruff fondness.

Pippin stayed quiet and held the brooch tight as Legolas continued tending to the gashes on his wrists and ankles. Legolas and Gimli, and occasionally Merry, continued their banter. The effort to keep the air light did not go unnoticed by Pippin, though he suspected that Merry shared his gratitude for it.

At the same time, now that they had some peace, Pippin was becoming more aware of how much he truly hurt. The cuts around his legs were numerous, but now that Merry mentioned it, he realized how much the whip-lashes on his side aggravated him.

“We’re fortunate that these hurts are not more grievous,” Aragorn said, apparently content with his assessment of Merry. The gash on Merry’s forehead, which had worried Pippin to no end, was miraculously sealed thanks to the Orcs’ “medicine.” Then again, Pippin wasn’t keen on thanking the Orcs for anything. “It’s clear that you were wanted alive, if not in perfect condition. For that, I am grateful.”

“You and me both,” Merry said, already toying with the ends of his bandages. “Though I would have preferred a smoother ride.” He looked over at Pippin, and his expression softened. “You alright, Pip?”

“Oh, I’ve had worse,” Pippin said. It was easier now to begin to dispel the darkness, now that Merry was okay, now that the ropes no longer dug into his skin, now that they were surrounded by friendly faces.

Gimli puffed. “I highly doubt _that_.”

“You’ve never been on the wrong side of Farmer Maggot during a harvest.” Pippin looked over to see that Legolas was now doling out rations to Merry. “Oy,” he said. “A little food for this poor Hobbit, too?”

“Patience,” Aragorn said, sliding back into place in front of Pippin and reaching for the hem of his shirt. “I need to make sure there are no wounds with immediate risk. Then you can eat to your heart’s content.”

“It’s unlikely you have enough food for that,” Pippin said, but then he broke off with a hiss of pain as Aragorn finished pulling the shirt away from the whip-welts on his ribs.

“Easy, now,” Aragorn soothed, but his brow furrowed.

He examined the gashes on Pippin’s side first — Pippin hadn’t realized that the whips had broken the skin quite so deep, though he certainly registered the sting of the wounds — then moved on to gentle prodding. Pippin bit back a cry of pain as Aragorn’s fingers found a particularly sensitive rib.

“It doesn’t feel broken,” Aragorn assured him after a few more agonizing prods. “Perhaps cracked.”

His face remained clouded, though, and when Pippin looked down he could guess why. Pippin’s torso was mottled with bruises, so dark against his pale skin it surprised him, as well as countless gouges from the Orcs’ nails as they’d dragged him from the ground. Doubtless Merry looked the same, but he’d managed to put such things out of mind while the injuries were covered by clothing.

“It’s fine, Strider,” Pippin said quietly, when it appeared that the Ranger was drawing deeper into contemplation and anger. “Really. Things could have been much worse, all things considered. They kicked us around a bit, but their leader kept them from having too much fun.” He grimaced at the memory.

“Small comforts, knowing that three days you were at their mercy.” Aragorn’s face was still darkened as he traced a bruise that looked suspiciously like a boot-print on Pippin’s chest. “It was on my mind a great deal as we pursued you. I admit it quickened my step exceedingly, perhaps to the displeasure of my companions.”

“I bet old Gimli didn’t complain once,” Merry said. Pippin recognized the forced lightness in his voice — always trying to make Pippin feel better, even when he himself was teetering on the brink.

“A Dwarf never complains,” Gimli said, and Pippin could have sworn he heard a soft, tinkling laugh from Legolas.

Aragorn continued dabbing some poultice on the weals, pausing whenever Pippin shuddered away. Finally, after what felt like an age of probing muscles and cleaning scratches, Aragorn tenderly lowered Pippin’s shirt once more.

“These should heal with time,” he said. “But you must let me know right away if the pain gets worse.”

“I’m sorry,” Pippin said then without thinking. Aragorn looked at him quizzically. “For our foolishness. If we hadn’t gotten captured, if we’d been better fighters, or… or if we’d found a way to escape, maybe the Fellowship would still be together.”

“Not foolishness,” Aragorn said. He patted the hand that still held the brooch. “Courage. Courage to keep fighting in the face of a great deal of despair. Your dropping of this leaf gave us much-needed hope in continuing our pursuit. Do not underestimate the power of that, Peregrin Took.”

Pippin didn’t feel like he had much power in that moment, trembling now in earnest from exhaustion and pain, so small amid all of these Men. He hadn’t felt power when he was picked up and carried from Boromir’s side, too helpless to fight back. He hadn’t felt power when he’d been forced to run apace with Orcs toward certain death. Yet Aragorn’s words planted warmth in his belly all the same.

Aragorn breathed, his face briefly reflecting an age of worry. “Still, you have been sorely treated, and I think you have both earned some long-overdue rest.”

“And a _proper_ meal, don’t forget that,” Merry chimed in, apparently having already finished the cheese and bread given to him by Legolas.

And, all at once, like a flame igniting in the night, Aragorn laughed a genuine laugh. “Of course — a feast, if we could procure it. We’ll see what we can come by. For now, rest, and know that you are safe.”

“You hear that, Pip?” Merry said, shuffling closer to Pippin as Aragorn and the rest turned to speak to one of the Riders. “A feast! I knew things would turn out right in the end.” Much to Pippin’s surprise, he proffered a chunk of his bread, evidently having saved a healthy portion for Pippin. “Still, don’t go dropping that leaf again. Who knew you’d play such a great part in our tale? I suppose there’s hope for you yet.”

“Yes,” Pippin said, attempting a smile. But his mind was not fully on Merry’s words; it still strayed to the brooch in his palm. He clutched it tighter, tried to memorize the shape of it. He could have sworn it responded to him. A promise, whispered in Galadriel’s voice: _You will find your courage, Peregrin Took_. “I believe there may be hope indeed.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! I would really appreciate a comment below. Please stay safe, stay healthy, and stay inside. I have a few other ideas for LotR fics, so I will hopefully see you all soon!
> 
> -Penn


End file.
